“I brought my daughter into the world and took her out of it.”
Holding Deborah’s hand as she took her last breath was a moment of both sadness and relief. My beautiful whirlwind of a girl was gone, and so was her pain.
Being a mom to a deceased child is incredibly hard, and tomorrow will be especially tough.
Despite losing one of my children, I will always be a mom of three. Today, my thoughts are with my 16-year-old and 14-year-old grandchildren, Hugo and Eloise, who have lost their wonderful mother.
They can’t send her a card, or gift, or feel her comforting embrace.
For the past 21 months, all I can do is love them and be there for them.
After battling bowel cancer for five and a half years, my eldest daughter, Dame Deborah James, passed away at 40.
It’s still hard to believe the world moves on without her. She was a force of nature from when she was a little girl.
Deborah was diagnosed in December 2016 at 35, with two young children, ages 9 and 7.
She was a healthy, active young woman who didn’t smoke or eat meat but began losing weight, experiencing bloody stools, and feeling fatigued.
Initially mistaken for stress or IBS, the bowel cancer diagnosis was devastating.
I thought she’d undergo surgery and chemotherapy and soon be fine.
However, more tests revealed the cancer was already in stage four.
Deborah’s bravery and determination were unsurprising; they were part of her identity.
She didn’t just want to deal with her illness; she wanted to help others too.
She aimed to raise awareness about cancer, its symptoms, and the importance of listening to one’s body.
“She wished the world were a better place for her kids.”
She started writing a column for The Sun and launched the Bowelbabe blog soon after her diagnosis.
Later, she co-hosted the popular podcast You, Me, and the Big C, worked with The Sun to lower the NHS screening age, and encouraged people to get checked, often discussing poop to raise awareness.
Her children were her top priority. She hoped to make things better for Hugo and Eloise, envisioning a time when they wouldn’t have to worry about cancer.
The Bowelbabe Fund, one of her final projects, aimed to fund cancer research and discover new treatments.
Knowing her time was limited, she poured everything into it.
But Deborah’s legacy goes beyond her work and the lives she saved.
The greatest gift she gave us was her advice on living.
I see this in her children: she lived each day fully and found joy in small moments. Her passion and energy are evident in them.
She urged them to live well the weekend before she passed away.
She said, “You never know when life will end, so enjoy every moment.” I also try to live by that mantra.
I tend to save the best things for special occasions, but Deborah was the opposite; she’d wear her favorite dresses for no reason.
Since her passing, I’ve tried to adopt her courageous, positive attitude.
I now dress up for no reason, wear sparkly earrings like she did, and try to savor each moment. It makes me feel closer to her.
“I hated that I couldn’t ease her pain.”
Deborah was told she might not survive the year when she was first diagnosed with bowel cancer.
I struggled to grasp this. I couldn’t fathom losing my daughter in just a few months.
Deborah defied the odds repeatedly, thanks to treatment and her inner strength.
She endured much, including bowel removal, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and strong drug combinations. She refused to give up.
In March 2022, on our last Mother’s Day together, she was very ill but still planned to come to my house for lunch.
That day is etched in my memory. I truly didn’t believe it would be our last because she always seemed to recover.
In May 2022, after being told there was nothing more doctors could do and she had days to live, Deborah left The Royal Marsden Hospital. That’s when I faced my greatest fear.
As her mom, I felt helpless. I hated that I couldn’t ease her pain.
So she moved in with us. We spent seven precious weeks together.
She organized movie nights and threw an impromptu engagement party for her 33-year-old brother Ben and his fiancée. Prince William even visited for tea after she was made a dame.
It was a surreal time, filled with love, sadness, and joy. I will always cherish it.
Deborah and I, unable to sleep, stayed up together most nights. We were afraid she might not wake up.
We had long talks. I assured her of her strength and promised to be there for her kids.
It felt like having my baby back; my dying daughter relied on me as she did as a child. We couldn’t be separated, and our bond grew even stronger.
I held her hand as she passed away. After all she had endured, I’m thankful her final moments were peaceful.
The first year after her death, I was running on adrenaline, doing everything I could to support Deborah’s husband, Seb, and their kids.
I kept busy to distract myself from the pain, but I didn’t truly process my grief.
As the anniversary of her death approached, I experienced severe panic attacks, rendering me unable to leave the house.
Everything had caught up with me, and I was physically and mentally exhausted.
Initially hesitant, I started taking antidepressants. But talking about Deborah and looking at her photos also helps me cope.
I felt better at the beginning of this year. We celebrated Sarah’s 40th birthday last month, and my son Ben is getting married in April.
We miss Deborah terribly on these special days, but we know she’d want us to enjoy them in her honor.
Deborah may no longer be with us, but her spirit lives on in her family, especially her children, and in the work she did to raise awareness and funds.